


i see the way

by IndieBughead



Category: Archie Comics, Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Accident, Angst, F/M, Fluff, I swear!, Memory Loss, Romance, bughead au, but it has a happy ending!, i swear im not trying to be angsty its just coming out, insecurities where have you been for 10 years welcome back, relearning, starting with a prompt now were here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-05-23 14:04:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14935710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IndieBughead/pseuds/IndieBughead
Summary: "Now it’s all gone and he’s once again justJughead Jones, Southside loser, abandoned by his mother and neglected by his father and always second best tofuckingArchie."Or,Bughead’s journey through Betty’s tragic memory loss.





	1. we might as well be strangers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wantasugarcube (sleuthingbetty)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleuthingbetty/gifts).



 

 

 

“ _Jughead_.”

 

 He refuses to look at her, arms bracketed around his head as he slumps against the hospital’s bathroom stall. He can taste the salt on his lips and the acid of his own vomit when he swallows but that’s all he can register of the outside world – his mind keeps playing the last 24 hours of his life on a loop.

.

.

.

 

Getting the call and rushing to the hospital, then sitting in the waiting room for hours with Alice and Veronica and Archie and even _fucking_ Reggie and then – the doctors’ pitying eyes and their words of warning, but he hadn’t wanted to listen to them – he just wanted to _see_ her and make sure she was okay and kiss her. And most importantly, he wanted to tell her that it had been his fault for wanting the stupid midnight burger and milkshake and for being an ass and not going to get it himself.  That he’ll kill the son of the bitch who ran a red light and crashed into her and he swears he will—but then, he enters the room and her eyes turn to him when he musters a ragged, “ _Betts,”_ and -- there’s nothing there. There’s no recognition, no love, no _anything_.

 

 He attributes it to the pain she must be under and heck; even the lighting of the too white hospital room crosses his mind, so he takes a deep breath to calm down the fear that’s starting to creep up his spine and gets closer to the bed, hand outstretched and ready to cling to any part of her.

 

But --

 

 

She flinches.

 

Some of the doctors’ words start to echo in the back of his mind; getting louder and louder but he pushes them away stubbornly once again because at least she’s _safe_ , she’s _alive_ ,  and she’s _here_. He tries again, warm hands meeting colder ones, but this time the flinching is accompanied by a deep set grimace and his hands suddenly feel like they’ve been stabbed with venom- drenched daggers.

 

His eyes shoot up to Alice, who he’d barely even registered as being in the room all this time, features contorted in horror. He’s met back with silent tears and bloodshot eyes, her chest heaving painfully as she shakes her head slowly at him, answering his voiceless question.

 

And then, a croaky voice he wouldn’t place as his wife’s if she hadn’t been the only other person in the room, shattering his world to pieces.

 

“Mom, what is _Jughead Jones_ doing here?”

 

And after that, it’s all a blur. Trying desperately to explain that he’s _Juggie_ , her husband, while Alice’s sobs only grow louder and Betty refuses to believe any of it, even attempting a laugh when Jughead shows her the wedding ring on his fourth finger engraved with her name.  He loses it when she once again turns to Alice and asks if this is all a joke, she can’t have married _him_ and _where is Archie anyway?_ At which point Jughead can only think that _of fucking course_ this is his life. After years and years of watching Betty pine over his best friend and then _finally_ getting the girl of his dreams and getting married to her and finally _finally_ beginning to understand that after all he might be worthy of her sunshine and her light and her sweetness and just of everything that makes her _Betty._   Now it’s all _gone_ and he’s once again just _Jughead Jones_ , Southside loser, abandoned by his mother and neglected by his father and always second best to _fucking_ Archie.

 

He steps out after that, shoving past Archie and Veronica in the hallway and ignoring their concerned voices yelling after him. He makes it into a bathroom stall and that’s where he _really_ loses it, stomach heaving everything he’s ever eaten and then some, until all he’s doing is coughing up air and choking on his own sobs.

 

And then, as if out of thin air, the door behind him slams open and Alice Cooper is crouching down next to him. He doesn’t lift his head from the toilet, where his cheek has been resting against the cold porcelain for what feels like the last millennium. It’s all white noise ringing in his ears,  at least until Alice carefully slides her hand under his neck and hauls his head up, the back of it hitting the metallic wall of the stall.

 

 “Jughead,” she tries again. And again. He doesn’t respond. He doesn’t want to look her in the eye. He doesn’t want to stare into the same shade of green that made him fall in love ten years ago.

 

He doesn’t want the reminder that the pair of eyes that share that same shade of green have forgotten that very same fact.

 

 Alice hiccups and sniffles, the hand around his neck curling and forcing him to raise his eyes to meet hers.

 

“ _Listen to me_ , Jughead. You need to be strong for her, you hear me? The doctors are positive that she’ll --”

 

“She doesn’t remember me,” he breathes out at last, his voice hoarse and empty. “My wife – she doesn’t—“

 

“I know, sweetheart,” she says, her hand rubbing against his shoulder blades as she pulls him into her arms, tears coating the back of his hair. “I know.”

 

“You’re probably secretly happy this happened,” he mumbles sourly, ignoring Alice’s shocked gasp against his skin. He’s hurting, and he knows he’s being unreasonable, but he needs to feel something, even if it’s resentment directed to the woman currently holding him together. “You’ve never approved of me so this is your chance for Betty to – to start all over again.”

 

“Jughead,” she whispers, voice catching on the last syllable and he can feel her struggling for words. “You’re my son-in-law. You’re -- you’re my family. Don’t ever say something like that again, especially not when –“

 

She breaks into heaving sobs again, hard rumbles against the side of his body that make him throw his arm around her instead, with as much force as he can muster with a body that feels boneless.  He hopes she can understand what he’s trying to tell her when he tightens his hold on her.

 

_I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry._

 

.

.

.

 

 

The doctors are able to roughly pinpoint the last thing Betty remembers with Alice’s help: somewhere around the end of their sophomore year. She doesn’t remember Archie rejecting her while they awkwardly danced during the Winter Formal, or kissing Jughead after the Bulldogs won against the Greendale Wolves six months later.  She doesn’t know who Veronica is, after all, the Lodge ex- heiress transferred at the beginning of their junior year. She doesn’t know Polly got pregnant in her senior year and fled town with Jason Blossom, never to be seen again.

 

And, in a twist that Jughead can only think is the most ironic tragedy of his lifetime, she doesn’t remember her father killing people in an attempt to rid their town of its sins. Four years ago, cuddled in bed with tears rolling down her cheeks after a particularly horrifying nightmare, she’d whispered that she wished she could forget what her father had done to their town, to their family, to _her_. She’d gotten her wish, at least.

 

Veronica is absolutely heartbroken.  Neither Jughead nor Archie have ever seen her crumple the way she does when she’s told that her best friend of over a decade doesn’t have any recollection of her. Not when her father got arrested for the second time, or even when her mother got dragged down into the mess and got sentenced herself – leaving her to fend for herself at the start of their freshman year of college. She had set her lips in a firm line, squared her shoulders and addressed the situation gracefully. Now, she slumps into Jughead’s arms and cries until Archie shows up after work, fresh new tears springing up when her husband’s arms take over.

 

And Betty— _god_ , Betty – she spends days screaming and crying until her throat is raw and she only stares at the ceiling with silent tears drying on her skin. He’s advised not to enter the room when she’s awake as to not distress her even further, so Jughead spends those days slumped against the back of her door, head cradled between his knees in an effort not to puke his guts out – hands shaking in restraint by his side so he doesn’t  throw the door open and comfort her.

 

Alice finally forces him to go back to their apartment on the seventh day after the accident. He’s been running on clothes that Veronica had magically pulled from inside a duffel bag, changing in the bathroom and running a washcloth under his armpits in a futile attempt to appear clean.  He knows he’s not fooling anyone, but at least the nurses and doctors have the decency not to comment on his appearance, or on the fact that he’s been camping outside of Betty’s room for an entire week, only moving from his spot to lie down on the bumpy couch in the waiting room. 

 

When Archie is given permission to visit Betty, something that makes Jughead’s blood boil to a degree he has never experienced before -- _he’s_ _her_ _husband_ , for goodness sake, he wants to cry out, but the doctors claim that Archie being the only person she remembers clearly might be good for her -- Alice practically throws him into a cab and orders the driver to take him home.

 

.

.

.

 

 

The drive from the hospital to their apartment is torture. Every minute that passes he debates whether to tell the driver to take him back or to keep driving until _he’s_ the one that can’t remember anymore.

 

They park outside their apartment building. The bush of daisies that Betty insists on watering every other day stares back at him through the window, petals and leaves rustling in the wind. Mr. Ramos, the owner of the bodega in the corner, is standing by the counter smoking his daily cigarette, the one he shares with Jughead every once in a while much to Betty’s bemusement. He can see their building’s doorman, Norm, with his feet propped up on the desk as he chews on a donut, and if this were any other day, Jughead might’ve thought it was just one of the many Betty leaves at his desk when she comes home from work after a brief stop at the nearby Krispy Kreme.

 

But it’s not, because she doesn’t even know where they live. It’s so unfair for her to forget everything this street has meant for her when all he can see as he stares out the window reminds him of her. 

 

He’s startled out of his misery when the driver turns around in his seat and shoves him roughly on the shoulder to get him out of the car. He manages to step out and throw a bill into his already outstretched palm in seconds before all that’s left of the cab is a yellow flash down the street.

 

Norm greets him with a pitying look that only deflates him further. He’s not religious, but he sends a prayer to whatever god is up there laughing at him right now as he makes his way up the stairs to please, _please_ make Norm stay quiet and not offer words of any kind, especially those tinted with sympathy, because he wants to make it into the safety of his apartment before he breaks down.

 

Thankfully he doesn’t say anything, simply nods at him solemnly and stands up to press the elevator button.

 

Once inside the apartment, Jughead tries not to pay attention to the obvious stillness of the room. Her running shoes; still flat against the baseboard of the wall ready to be used, his laptop; still where he left it when he got the call at 12:24 a.m. seven days ago, their bed; made.

 

That last detail makes him do a double take—their bed had definitely not been made that night. He takes slow notice of the kitchen, squeaky clean and pristine. There are flower arrangements on the counter, all with small white cards attached. He moves closer to confirm his suspicions, reading over the signed names. Their _neighbors_. _Norm_. But who --

 

There’s a note stuck to their fridge with one of the magnets Betty insisted on buying on their honeymoon. The brown furry monkey grins mockingly at him as he reads the message.

 

_“Juggie – text this number when you get home and you’ll get food delivered ASAP. I cleaned out your fridge so things wouldn’t go bad. V.”_

 

 _Veronica_ , he thinks automatically, and once again he finds himself communicating with a god he doesn’t believe in to give thanks for her existence.

 

He grabs the note and slides it into the back pocket of his pants, with no clear intention of doing as instructed any time soon. He’s slowly becoming accustomed to not feeling hungry, for once in his life.

 

He makes it into their bedroom. He knows he should take a shower, eat something and get back to the hospital. He knows there’s something proverbial about showers, or at least Betty always claims that she feels better after one. “ _It’s like a fresh start whenever you need it, Juggie_ ,” she’d said. He _should_ take one.

 

But their room smells like her and he finds himself lying down on her side of the bed. He clutches her pillow, the scent of lavender and honey and her sweet skin filling his lungs. It’s as calming as taking a drag off his cigarettes – and, so it seems, almost as lethal.

 

He hasn’t cried himself to sleep in years. He remembers being twelve years old and terrified.  The shouting, his mother crying, his dad’s slurred words in the dark of the night, doors slamming, and glass shattering. He’d get under the covers and smash his lumpy pillow over his ears. He’d think of Archie and the way his father would ruffle his red hair and drop a kiss to his forehead whenever he could, or of Betty and her mother giggling while baking cookies in their perfect kitchen as choked sobs overtook him and eventually lulled him to sleep.

 

He hasn’t cried himself to sleep in years – there hadn’t been a need to. The beautiful girl next to him – his girlfriend, his fiancée, his wife- had found ways of her own to make him dream.

 

He’s twelve years old all over again when he closes his eyes this time.

 

 

 

 


	2. baby we’ll be fine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to Isabelle @redundantoxymorons and Evie @cacti-evie for beta-ing this chapter for me; you guys are so lovely and amazing.
> 
> song featured as the title is "baby well’ll be fine" by the national and i highkey suggest listening to it while reading this; it’s what i was listening to on repeat as i wrote it.

“Juggie—wake up, man.”

 

He stirs in his sleep, arms hugging her damp pillow tighter against his cheek. He tries to go back to the vision playing itself behind his eyelids colored in shades of pastels, her breathy giggle near his ear, her signature light pink lipstick forever smudged against the corner of his mouth.

 

But then, his name is called again and he’s forced into reality.

 

His bleary eyes blink lazily against the brightness of the room, hands pushing his limp body to rest against the headboard as he tries to focus in on his best friend.

 

“Hey, you okay?” Archie asks from the corner of the bed, red hair sticking out uncharacteristically as he runs his left hand through it.

 

“Is she alright?” he answers, with a curt nod to acknowledge his own wellbeing, one that he knows Archie sees right through when the corners of his eyes are still wrinkled in worry.

 

“She’s doing okay, no changes so far but she’s coming to terms with everything,” Archie pauses. “She asked me about you.”

 

Just like that, Jughead remembers that part of the reason they’re having this conversation in his bedroom and not in the hospital waiting room, is that Archie had been given permission to talk to his wife before he had. A flash of residual anger rises within him. He doesn’t bother masking it in his voice when he asks,

 

“Did she? Was she absolutely _shocked_ that she’d actually married your good-for-nothing Southside trash best friend, instead of you?”

 

“It has _never_ been like that, and you know it,“ Archie sighs out. His voice carries a hard edge to it that causes Jughead’s annoyance to melt away, suddenly replaced by guilt. “She wanted to understand how everything came to be, which is absolutely reasonable in her situation.”

 

Jughead wipes his hand over his face as he nods and meets Archie’s eyes from between his fingers, muttering a low, “Sorry.”

 

They sit in silence for a few beats. Jughead catches Archie opening his mouth to speak a few times, before snapping it shut and furrowing his brows. As he’s swinging his legs over the side of the bed, figuring he has to leave it at some point, Archie clears his throat.

 

“I told her everything I could to fill the empty spaces she has, but everything that happened between you two, how you came to be—she deserves to hear it from you, not me.”

 

The hands that were reaching to grasp the edge of his crumpled, tear-soaked collar stop midair as he turns to face the redhead once again.

 

“Thank you, Arch,” he says, and hopes the gratefulness in his voice can be felt as clearly as he feels it in his heart. “I know—I know it looks like I bailed yesterday—“

 

“Juggie, _don’t_ ,” Archie interrupts, shaking his head with fondness. “I know Alice sent you home, and either way, you deserved a break.”

 

All night long he’d been in a daze of soft pastels and strawberry lips, but now all he sees is the sterile white of Betty’s hospital room, her battered limbs covered in gauze and heavy bandages.

 

Her raw screams  aren’t scratched  into his consciousness as much as the softer whimpers that would echo past the door he’d rest his head on late at night, before moving to the couch.

 

“I _don’t_ , Arch, I really don’t,” Jughead mumbles, voice raising at the last syllable as he tumbles back and sits on the edge of Betty’s side of the bed, head cradled in between his hands, from where he manages to gasp out, “It should be me in that fucking hospital bed, not Betty.”

 

In one swift movement, Archie is right in front of him, kneeling in between his open knees and placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.

 

He knows Archie is trying to tell him something, that he’s trying to comfort him as his mouth moves and his eyes search his face, but all Jughead can think is that his cheeks feel dry and how unfair it is that he doesn’t even have enough tears to feel sorry for himself, for his life, for Betty.

 

 _This is not your fault_ , he hears Archie chant over, and over again.

 

For a few minutes, he allows himself to believe it isn’t.

.

.

.

The waiting room is cold and empty when the elevator doors slide open. He feels a sudden need to hit the wall out of frustration towards  everyone who’s ever crossed paths with Betty for not being there, keeping watch over her. It goes as quick as it comes, swiftly replaced by guilt, something he’s becoming more accustomed to feeling by the second. It should be him—always and forever, in sickness and in health. And yet—

 

The croissant he nibbled on the way to the hospital, due to Archie’s insistence, suddenly feels like a ton of bricks on his stomach and the smell of his clean clothes feels like treason.

 

He never should have left.

 

His spiraling is interrupted when he catches the voice of the raven-haired, ex-corporate princess, somewhere down the hallway. She’s using what he can only describe as her business voice.

 

He heaves a sigh of relief—relief at knowing that Veronica has been here, even when her best friend doesn't remember her, she's still here to make sure Betty's taken care of.

 

The voice  gets closer to where they sit, huddled near the front desk, and he barely has time to register the color of her heels as they come to a halt in front of him before she’s crouching down, delicately folding her knees to one side and placing a light hand on his shoulder.

 

He lifts his head up only to find her eyes on Archie’s, locked in what seems like a silent conversation. He must really feel like absolute shit, he realizes, since he doesn’t have the energy to roll his eyes or make a snarky comment about it. Instead, he lowers his head back onto his hands.

 

“Did you have something to eat?” he’s asked after a few more seconds, and he’s thankful that Veronica doesn’t ask him questions he can’t answer sincerely in times like this.

 

He stares up at her and he’s reminded of all the reasons why she’s become such a pillar of strength and grace in his life. It had taken years of bemusedly accepting her as part of their group, for him to realize that whatever human beings were made of, him and Veronica were the same—they had both overcome their family’s legacy and made one for themselves.

 

He nods, cracking a small smile. “Your husband here forced a croissant down my throat.”

 

“Good,” she chirps, eyes moving fondly over his face, as if checking for damage. “That was the plan.”

 

There’s a beat of silence in which they all inhale and exhale loudly, and then Veronica’s squeezing his shoulder and standing up to her full height gracefully, dusting imaginary dust off her skirt. Archie stands up too, hand extending almost on autopilot to grasp Veronica’s forearm gently, to pull her closer and press a kiss to her temple.

 

“We both have to get to work, you’re all cleared out to go in,” Archie says, his face softening as he adds, “Whenever you feel ready for it.”

 

Veronica bites her bottom lip thoughtfully and scrunches up her eyebrows, cocking her head slightly to the side. Jughead’s never been sure who learned it from whom, nor exactly when it became a shared gesture between the two, but it’s one he’s all too familiar with as part of his wife’s wide array of expressions.

 

She reaches for her purse and pulls out a familiar box. “I got her these.”

 

He takes it and places it on his lap, fingers tracing the intricate lettering: _Jacques Torres’ Chocolate Covered Orange Slices._

 

“She—she might not recognize these,” he says softly, eyes travelling up to meet hers.  “Ronnie, you introduced her to them.”

 

Her lip quivers. “I know. I just thought—if she had these, maybe—,” her tone is hopeful, but it crumbles the more she struggles to finish her sentences. “Her memory would be triggered somehow, and she’d—”

 

 _She’d remember me,_ hangs in the space between the three of them as Veronica tries to swallow back a sob. It ends up coming out strangled, despite her best efforts, and she clutches the pearls resting against the hollow of her neck tightly as she composes herself, Archie’s hand moving up and down comfortingly over her arm.

 

Jughead wants to tell her the reason that he’s wearing an overpriced blue button up today is that it’s one of Betty’s favorites. He thinks, on a deeper level, that he’s afraid to admit that out loud, in case his wife’s stare is still as blank as it was the first time she saw him after the accident.

 

“I know,” is what he says instead, lifting an arm to rest his palm on her other shoulder, squeezing lightly.

 

They leave shortly after, once Veronica has made sure that her previous discussion with a nurse, regarding the correct placing for the flowers in Betty’s room, is known by the entire floor staff and that Jughead’s aware of everything in his wife’s medical file, by asking him enough questions to make his head begin to thump.

  
  


“You know,” he’s startled by one of Betty’s nurses outside her room, an eyebrow quirked up in his direction as she stops in front of him. “The door’s not going to open just because you stare at it.”

 

He doesn’t really know how long he’s been standing there, only that he’d gone downstairs with the excuse of grabbing a coffee and made his way up six flights of stairs before arriving at her door.

 

The Styrofoam cup in his hand feels cold, though, so he assumes it’s been more than a few minutes. He clears his throat and opens his mouth to speak, but she cuts him to it.

 

“Mr. Jones, right?”

 

“Jughead,” he mumbles quietly. She stares at him. He clears his throat once more and tries again, louder. “Please call me Jughead.”

 

“Alright, Jughead,” she says amicably, before gesturing towards the door. “Ready?”

 

He reminds himself that Betty _asked_ to see him, so he nods and opens the door before he chickens out.

 

The second thing he notices when he walks into the room, is that Veronica’s request to move the bouquet of Betty’s favorite flowers from the dark corner to the table near the open window, has been complied with.

 

The first is that his wife is sitting up, against the headboard, a shy smile on her face as she greets the nurse by name before trailing her eyes to his.

 

He knows Betty; has known her since before she could properly tie her own shoes, so he’s absolutely relieved when he doesn’t register any coldness in her stare as he tentatively walks towards the chair next to her bed.

 

Instead, he finds nervousness tucked into the green of her eyes. Her casted forearms rest on top of her lap, fingers dancing lightly over her blanket in odd patterns. She watches him settle into the chair, as the nurse walks around them, pushing at buttons and checking bandages quietly.

 

It takes him a few seconds to realize she’s waiting for him to say something, but he’s not sure how to start. He’d spend the rest of his days sitting on this chair,  looking at her and being thankful that she’s alive. He doesn’t want to screw his chances by starting off saying something that’ll upset her.

 

They’d never been big on pet names— he’d call her _baby_ or _babe,_ every once in a while, mostly when he was trying to get his way or in moments of ecstasy. Terms of endearment were occasionally used, like _honey_ and _sweetheart,_ to make her giggle or comfort her during hard times, but for the most part of their lives they’d always been _Juggie_ and _Betts_.

 

The nurse, _Brenda,_ he thinks he heard Betty call her, walks out of the room with the excuse of coming back later to check up on everything once more.

 

“Hey there,” he settles on, figuring it’s best to let her set the tone. “How are you doing?”

 

“I’m doing good, thank you for asking,” is her response, one that sounds like it’s been said too many times.

 

It stings, that he’s getting her Cooper issued standard response, but he’s always been a strong supporter of the motto that beggars can’t be choosers, so he gives her a small smile and reaches for the box inside his jacket pocket.

“I’m glad,” he says softly, suppressing a grin at the way her eyes seem to follow the movement of his hand discreetly from under her lashes.

Memory or not, his Betty has always had a wandering gaze; an eye for detail.

 

“I— _we_ got you some chocolate, thought it might be a nice change from the hospital food.”

 

He places it delicately in the space between her hands, and she tilts one of the sides up to read the label. “I’ve never had these before.” _I know._

 

He thinks of Veronica’s face earlier, the hint of hope in her voice being quickly replaced with choked sobs. He feels like he failed her.

 

He swallows hard and does his best to smile reassuringly at Betty.

 

 

She clears her throat. “Jughead, I—I wanted to say thank you, for being here.”

 

He opens his mouth to tell her not to thank him, _please don’t thank me for anything, I’m the reason you’re here_ , but she holds up a finger and he snaps it shut. It shouldn’t surprise him, that after everything, he’s still at her absolute beck and call. _Always_.

 

“I know you’ve been staying here every night,” she adds and this time it takes him physical effort not to scream out that he hasn’t, that he’s been a bad husband, that he’d broken his vows and slept in their apartment last night, that he’d left her alone when he promised that he would never.

 

His fists clench on top of his knees and he thinks for once in his life he’s able to understand her urge to dig her nails into the soft flesh of her palms.

 

He flattens his hands and squeezes his knees instead.

 

“...knew you were sitting outside my door and sleeping in the waiting room, I would have asked you to come in sooner. I honestly thought you weren't here, after the way I treated you—”

 

“Betty,” he interrupts after a shuddering breath, holding up his palm. “I'm your husband.”

 

She stares at him, and he assumes by the lack of emotion in her eyes, that she doesn't quite grasp the depth of his words.

 

How could she, when in her mind the concept of marriage is her parents’ picture-perfect one? The one where there's flowers on the dining table every Tuesday and date night every Friday, the one where their fights are hushed whispers that will soon elevate to full blown out screaming matches in the living room, the one that results in divorce and a series of murders?

  


Her fingers twitch again, this time itching inwards to scratch the paste casted over her palms as she squirms lightly.

 

_He's made her uncomfortable._

 

For the first time in his life, he's made her uncomfortable.

 

“I’m your husband,” he repeats on a sigh, when he's able to move past the sting in his heart, even if it echoes all over his body and makes him want to lie down and cry.

 

His mouth becomes dry at the words he’s about to say.

 

“But most importantly, I’m your friend, I’ve always been your friend and that’s what I’m trying to be right now.”

 

She nods slowly before her eyes light up and she lets out a short giggle. “Ever since Archie’s 5th birthday, the one where the cake tasted funny cause Mrs. Andrews was out of town and his dad didn't know how to bake one, and you shared some of your chocolate chip cookies with me.”

 

“6th,” he corrects with a small smile. He doesn't add that he'd thought she was the coolest girl he'd ever played with and that’s why he’d offered half of his off-brand chocolate chip cookies. He doesn’t tell her they were given to him by his mother as an apology for not being able to pick him up from Archie’s, back when they still lived on the Northside. He doesn’t tell her his stomach grumbled, but he didn’t complain when he got home, ‘cause he’d shared his cookies with a really pretty girl.

 

“That was a good birthday party,” she says, after a few beats of silence.

 

“I'm sure Ethel would say otherwise, since she projectile-vomited all over the table, but it _was_ a good one,” he jokes lightly, and is surprised when she scrunches up her nose before throwing her head back and letting out a laugh.

 

She's never been more beautiful than now.

 

This time, when he smiles, it doesn't feel like the edges of his mouth are cutting into his skin.

 

.

.

.

.

 

He becomes a regular sight in Betty’s room after that. Sometimes Archie’s there, or a shy, but persistent, Veronica. Other times it’s just Alice. Some days they sit in silence, but as they go by and Betty becomes more open to him, more comfortable, she starts to ask questions about their relationship, and he fills the gaps in her memory with the story of them.

 

It’s not easy for him, not just because re-telling the story of how they fell in love is painful, and he has to dash out of the room on more than one occasion because it’s all too much, but also because he has to stop himself from telling her he loves her or touching her in the way he would before. Veronica gently reminds him that there was a time where all he could do was love her from afar, but she stops once he tells her that it’s harder now— now that he knows what it’s like to be loved by her.

 

Still, it _is_ easy to fall into the routine of their new normal, and it’s even easier to pretend that everything’s going to be okay. The doctors are optimistic that Betty’s full memory will make its return in due time, so it’s a matter of being patient.

 

Patient turns into hopeful a few weeks later, when her casts are almost all gone except for the ones on her legs, and she calls him _Juggie_ for the first time. They’ve all been carefully avoiding the nickname in front of her, waiting to see if she’d remember. When she says it during a game of Scrabble, complaining that he’d cheated, _which he hadn’t_ , he goes completely still.

 

“ _Juggie?_ ” she’d asked when he didn’t respond. “ _Is something wrong?”_

 

 _“So many things are wrong.”_ He'd told her, fighting the lump in his throat. _“But this,”_ he'd grabbed her hand, squeezing her fingers lightly in his _, “this is right.”_

  
  
  


Like everything in life, in _his_ life, it crashes down all too quickly and without warning.

 

He’s in her room that afternoon, at an hour when Alice is usually the one watching over Betty, as he catches up on work in the waiting room. She had needed to take care of some printing issues with the _Register_ and asked Jughead to fill in.

 

He’s leisurely paging through their copy of _The Bluest Eye_ as Betty naps when there’s a knock on the door. Brenda walks in, squeaky wheels giving away the cart she’s pushing through. Jughead looks up only when Betty stirs and stretches her arms above her head, yawning adorably.

 

“Time to clean up,” Brenda announces loudly and he feels himself nod as his finger finds the last word he read, shifting his leg to rest over the other.

 

Someone clears their throat.

 

His eyes snap up to Brenda, but she’s busying herself with the showerhead she had carried into the room. Betty’s looking away from him to one corner of the room, though, and her cheeks are flushed bright red.

 

It takes him a few seconds to understand what’s going on.

 

She doesn't want him to see her naked.

  
  


She doesn’t know he’s seen her naked millions of times by now. She doesn’t know that they gave each other their virginities in the darkness of her room, their heavy breathing and occasional nervous giggle piercing through the still of the night. She doesn’t know that he knows her body better than she does herself, because he has spent hours loving her in every imaginable way.

 

And she doesn’t know, _fuck_ , she doesn’t know that the reason why he had wanted a burger at 12 a.m. was because he’d been exhausted after fucking her against the wall that night, claiming he was too old to be doing such things as she laughed at him, pulling her dress back on and asking for the car keys.

 

She doesn’t know, and this time it’s not because she forgot, but because he didn’t get to tell her – that he’d walked into the bathroom with a dopey grin on his face, her _love you, be right back_ still echoing throughout their apartment as he tied the condom up, dropped it in the trash and thought that maybe it was time to discuss not making the call to the insurance company, asking for the IUD renewal after all.

 

She doesn’t know any of this, so he nods and places the book back on the bedside table. He walks towards the door, only belatedly realizing that in his daze he didn’t say goodbye to her, so he turns to wave as quickly as he can before she can register the hurt etched all over his face.

 

But she’s still looking at the corner, and for the first time in a few weeks, he’s reminded once again of all they’ve lost.

 

 _This is all your fault_ , his own voice chants at him this time.

 

He believes it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... sorry?  
>  nah you guys okay, this is nowhere near as angsty as the first chapter, right? let me know, hit me up with your angst-ometer ratings for this one.
> 
> i promise it has a happy ending, and the prompt line eventually makes it into the story (i swear Luiza!)
> 
> thank you so much to those who have taken the time to ask me about this story, i hope this update lived up to your expectations.
> 
> find me at @indiebughead on tumblr so we can have a chat
> 
> hugs to you all!


	3. if you think i’m losing you (you must be crazy)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...this is it, you guys.
> 
> brief reminder that the prompt that started this all has finally made an appearance: "i see the way you look at me when you think i’m not looking."
> 
> many many thanks to lots and lots of people, especially to my two lovely betas Isabelle @redundantoxymorons and Evie @cacti-evie who have made my life easier, you two are amazing and i love you.
> 
>  
> 
> enjoy!

He doesn’t know where to go.

 

His first instinct is to dive for the elevator as soon as he steps out of her room, but when he lifts his left hand to brush away the moisture from his cheeks, the cold metal of his ring against his wet skin holds him back.

 

He can’t leave. Not again.

 

So he slumps against her door, something his back had grown accustomed to in the days before Betty invited him in, and he tries to breathe.

 

It’s all too much, and what’s worse is that he  _ knows _ how selfish he’s being, he  _ knows _ this isn’t about him, it’s about Betty. But his chest feels too tight, too painful and it’s like there’s not enough space for his aching heart and his heaving lungs in the same cavity—

 

“Let’s go, Jug,” he hears through pounding ears. The only initial indication that the person crouching beside him and shaking his shoulder lightly is Veronica, is the way the fluorescent hospital light bounces off her pearls.

 

With unsurprising strength, she hauls them both up and guides him down the hallway and into the elevator.

 

Jughead only lifts his eyes from the ground when the doors shut. Veronica presses a red-polished nail against one of the the buttons, signaling the third floor.

 

He’s never been to the third floor, but he doesn’t question it. He doesn’t have the mind to.

 

For once in his life, he doesn’t appreciate Veronica’s silence. It makes the dull beating of his pulse throbbing in his ears feel even louder. He can’t think straight. He keeps seeing Betty’s shy eyes, the way she’d squirmed in her bed at the notion of being naked in front of him.

 

The elevator dings and Veronica nudges him forward, into a dark hallway. His first thought is that this is the morgue, and that Veronica is trying to teach him a lesson. She’ll say something like,  _ “Look at these dead people, Jughead, don’t you realize how lucky you are that Betty’s alive?” _

 

But it’s not the morgue. He immediately feels ridiculous for harboring such a morbid thought when he realizes where Veronica has led him.

 

It’s dark, save for the row of candles lining the side of the small chapel, just enough light to make out the pews and the images near the altar.

 

Veronica drops the hand that had been circling his bicep to signal the cross across her forehead while muttering in Spanish. She turns to him then, signaling with her eyes for him to slide into the nearest pew.

 

“Veronica—I’m not,” he starts off weakly, but he knows it’s loud enough for her to hear him. “You know I don’t believe in—”

 

“I know,” she replies simply with a shrug, before her hand disappears inside her purse and pulls out what Jughead thinks is a necklace. She begins to count the beads in between her fingers, though, and he quickly  realizes—channeling the image of his late grandma praying in the living room whenever she visited the trailer park—it’s a rosary. “I just thought you’d appreciate that there’s no one here to see if you break down. It seemed like you were having a hard time outside Betty’s room.”

 

Her tone isn’t one of inquisition, so he simply nods. They stay like that at first, for what amount of time Jughead isn’t entirely sure, but it’s long enough for his breathing to even out as he finds comfort in the rhythm Veronica sets with her fingers, thumbing her way through the beads and occasionally whispering a prayer into the otherwise silent room.

 

Jughead knows,  _ hopes _ , that Veronica isn’t expecting anything from him; he’s not sure he’s ready to disclose what no one but himself knows, not yet. He’d like to think their friendship has grown to a point where they don’t feel like they owe each other anything more than their unconditional support, but the woman sitting next to him, a rock in his and his wife’s lives, deserves his gratitude right now.

 

He clears his throat, uncomfortable with the idea of interrupting her praying—after all, he might not be a believer, but he appreciates Veronica’s concern for his wife’s health—and waits until she finishes and pockets the rosary back into her purse before he speaks.

 

“Ronnie—thank you,” he whispers, voice cracking slightly over the last syllable. “None of this—I wouldn’t be able to go through this without you.”

 

She gives him a tight-lipped smile and covers one of his hands with hers. “We’re family.”

 

He fights back the urge to cry. Never once did he think, growing up, that he’d get the chance to experience what being loved and thought of as family was like. He thought he’d lost his chance first when his mother decided he wasn’t good enough to take with her, and then when his father decided that he wasn’t worth staying sober for. But he knows now that his chance was never lost, not really, it was just waiting for the right people, the ones who would come into his life and cement themselves there for posterity.

 

_ Family _ , Betty had told him once,  _ is the people you choose over and over again, no matter what. _

 

He has sometimes suspected, deep down in the most insecure corners of his heart, the only reason why Veronica and Alice willingly stood by him had to do entirely with Betty. She had to be the reason they were there for him, a common denominator—they simply accepted him as part of her.

 

But he knows now, and he feels it in the small space between him and Veronica in the pew, in the warmth of her hand over his, in the way fresh clothes appear in duffel bags every few mornings next to him in the waiting room couch, in the way Alice calls him every day not just to ask about Betty, but to ask about him, too, that even in the darkest of circumstances, this family they’ve formed will include him, too.

 

“I know,” he says, because he really does, especially now, and so he  doesn’t feel ashamed to add, in a whisper, “I'm so scared, Veronica.”

 

Her eyes move to the front of the chapel, and he watches as they flutter shut before she squeezes his fingers under hers. A few seconds later, her eyes return to meet his.

 

He'd seen his fair share of emotions reflected in her eyes over the years. Bemusement, joy, pride, anger—a lot of anger during her parents' trials, and he's witnessed love in those eyes too, so many times, directed at Archie when he falls asleep on their couch and she has to half-haul him  into their bedroom night after night, at Betty whenever they see each other after a long time, and now at him.

 

“I'm going to tell you something that I've kept to myself for years,” she starts, her voice tender. “Normally, I wouldn’t break the unspoken confidentiality rule of girl talk, but I'm positive B wouldn't mind in the slightest, not if she knew why I’m doing it.”

 

“You remember how often Betty would sleep over at my place, back in Riverdale?” she asks, but doesn’t give him time to respond before she continues with a soft grin. “ _ I _ remember how annoyed you would get, knowing that you wouldn’t be climbing into her room those nights, and I remember how my 16 year-old-self felt so lucky that Betty would choose me over you sometimes, even if it was just for the night because—that’s when I got to see her, the  _ real _ her, the one who aired her dreams and fears to me as we both stared at my ceiling at 3 a.m. on a school night.”

 

Jughead recalls many mornings, standing on the steps of Riverdale High, sometimes accompanied by Archie when he didn’t have practice before class, sometimes by himself, holding two cups of coffee. The Lodge’s town car would roll around the corner, and after some assistance from Smithers, out would come Betty and Veronica, both reaching for each other almost automatically, to join at the elbow as they made their way up the stairs.

 

All this time—10 years of it—he’d attributed the way Betty’s eyes seemed to shine brighter, how her usually uptight posture was replaced by relaxed shoulders, and the soft smile she would grace with him, to a good night’s sleep in Veronica’s more-than-comfortable bed. To a night where she hadn’t had to endure her parents viciously screaming at each other. To a night where Alice’s sobs over Polly’s disappearance were instead replaced by the soft hum of Veronica’s snoring.

 

Now, he knows better.

 

“Veronica—”

“Let me finish, please,” she cuts him off gently, holding a finger up. “I'm telling you all this to preface what comes next.” At his nod, she sighs and continues. “I'm sure you can deduce that you were often a topic of conversation. It started with little things, like  _ did you read Juggie's article? I thought it was so good _ , until eventually, one day, it turned into _ V, I think—I think I like Jughead as more than a friend _ . She– I think she told me how she felt about you long before you ever even suspected a thing. When you kissed her– god, Jug, you have no idea how  _ overjoyed _ she was. As someone who had never really known what love could be like with parents like mine, I was shocked and– in all honesty, I was a little jealous too, when that happiness didn’t die down, but increased more and more every day. I don’t know what you were doing Jughead, but you– you’ve always known how to make my girl  _ so _ happy.” Her voice cracks painfully on the last syllable.

 

“Sometimes we'd tell each other things without prompt, you know, we'd just blurt them out into the dark of my room in hushed whispers, even if we were the only ones there. She told me—.” Veronica breathes in deeply, and only then does Jughead notice he has been holding his own supply in for a while. “She was sure you were her soulmate, the one person who she could run into in any alternate universe and still fall in love with.  _ In every universe or life, V, I am his and he is mine _ —that’s what she told me that night.”

 

He's not sure who moves first, but his sobs are quickly muffled by the material of Veronica's blouse as they shake against each other. Her tears hit the side of his neck as she grasps the back of his shirt tightly.

 

“I– Jughead, I need you to understand I'm not telling you this to make you feel worse; I'm telling you this because I know Betty would want you to fight for your future, not for your past. Memory or not, you two– you two were made for each other, and I'm sorry it took me years to realize this, to believe her words, but I've witnessed your love for each other so many times by now that I'd be a fool not to– not to encourage you to fight for her, knowing that you both deserve it.”

 

_ You both deserve it. _

 

_ I am his and he is mine. _

 

“I promise,” he mumbles wetly against the top of her head, sniffling loudly. “ _ I promise, I promise, I promise.” _

 

.

.

.

.

 

Betty hadn’t seemed upset when he knocked on her door later that afternoon after Veronica had left; instead, she'd offered an apology for making him uncomfortable.

 

“Don’t worry about it,” he'd said, moving back into his chair and grabbing his book from the table. “It gave me time to talk with Ronnie for a bit.”

 

“Oh! I didn’t know you two were close,” she’d replied, curiosity clear in her eyes.

 

He’d given her a smile, before saying, “We have our moments.”

 

She’d accepted that with a smile of her own, seemingly content with his answer, leaving him to trail his eyes back down to his book.

 

“Juggie,” she’d interrupted a few minutes later. “Do you think she’d mind painting my nails before we leave?”

 

_ We _ .

 

Heart soaring in his chest, he’d forgone his book to grab her pinky finger in his. “I think, Betts, that she’d be honored.”

 

.

.

.

.

 

Four days later, she’s given the all clear to go home.

 

He spends most of the morning signing his name over dotted lines for their insurance company and completing forms but, overall, he spends most of his morning in an incredibly good mood.

 

Because last night, Betty had leaned over and kissed him.

 

He’d been perusing the idea of showing her one of their photo albums for days, but some fear inside of him, fear of seeing the nothingness in her eyes again, had prevented him from taking the plunge.

 

After his promise to Veronica, and the hope that had risen in his heart at Betty’s use of  _ we _ , he’d looked for the assisting doctor and asked for authorization.

 

He’d ran back to their apartment, grabbed a chair and took upon the task of finding the old dusty box somewhere on the top shelf of their closet.

 

He’d thought the look on her face alone when he’d presented the album from behind him, had been worth it.

 

He’d thought the way she’d patted the spot next to him and encouraged him to climb in next to her, had been more than he’d ever bargained for.

 

As it turned out, he’d been wrong.

 

After hours of paging through pictures of them—Betty with a milkshake at Pop’s, both of them snuggling Hot Dog, Betty graduating from Columbia, Jughead from NYU, their first Christmas as a married couple, San Francisco in the summer with Archie and Veronica—and telling her the stories behind each one of them at her request, she’d turned and pressed her lips against the edge of his. “Thank, you Juggie,” she’d mumbled, still against his skin. “For the life you’ve given me. I may not remember most of it  _ yet _ , but– the fuzzy feeling I have in my chest right now, I know I’ve felt it before.”

 

 

He’s in a truly  _ incredible _ mood.

 

Alice wheels Betty out of the room a few minutes after Jughead hands in the last of the paperwork, and he crosses the room in 3 long strides when he notices his mother-in-law struggling to maneuver Betty with one hand while holding several bags in the other.

 

“Here,” he says, crouching down to drop a kiss on top of Betty’s head before reaching for the bags. “All set?”

 

Alice shoots him a grateful smile and reaches up to ruffle his hair fondly. “Ready to go, I just want to thank the nurses one last time.”

 

The wink she shoots his way before moving down the hallway would disturb him if the intentions behind it weren’t so clear in her eyes.

 

“I’d offer to check the room one last time, but I’m sure your mom already did,” he says casually, nudging Betty’s wheelchair towards the side so they’re no longer in the middle of the hallway.

 

She chuckles lightly as he crouches down in front of her. “She double checked around 4 times, so I think we’re good.”

 

“You do that in hotels every time, too.”

 

Betty doesn’t seem taken aback by that detail. If anything, her smile grows. “The Jughead Jones I used to know would find that exasperating.”

 

He shakes his head. “All versions of me, love everything all versions of you do.”

 

Her smile drops slightly, fingers clenching the fabric of her shirt tightly. Her eyes move across every inch of his face.

 

“Even if—”

 

_ Even if I don’t remember that I love you? _

 

“Even if, Betts.”

 

She inches one of her hands forward, and Jughead catches it on his own, turning it so he can press a kiss to her palm. He sees Alice winking at him and he clears his throat lightly. “How are you feeling?”

 

“A little overwhelmed, if I’m being honest,” she confesses quietly, her hand moving out of his to cup the side of his face. “But also, really excited to see– well, to see what my life is like, our home, everything.”

 

“I’m excited for you to see it all, too,” he says, leaning into her touch and closing his eyes briefly. A few minutes pass before a door clicks open down the hall, Alice’s voice filtering out.

 

“Take me home, Juggie,” Betty says quietly, giving his cheek a final stroke before he raises himself to his full height.

 

.

.

.

.

 

Years later, they’ll tell their grandchildren the story of how they got to fall in love with each other a second time.

 

(Jughead will argue that he’s spent his entire lifetime falling in love with Betty, and she’ll roll her eyes before leaning over to give him a kiss, much to their grandkids’ disgust.)

 

The first months are filled with hopeful, small smiles, tentative touches, and  _ so _ much joy whenever Betty is able to remember something.

 

Jughead sleeps on the couch, but as the leaves start to turn all shades of red, yellow and orange and drop to the ground, Betty finds herself dreading the moment she has to leave the warmth of his embrace and sleep by herself.

 

She remembers bits of their relationship now. He came home from work one night to find her sitting on the couch, cheeks flushed red and a hand ghosting her smiling lips. “The Winter Formal,” she said as way of greeting.

 

He tried to hide his grin as he got rid of his layers and came to sit next to her. “The Winter Formal,” he echoed back, unsure how much of it she had remembered.

 

“We–  _ in my room _ ,” she stuttered, before blushing furiously and covering her face with both hands. She peeked at him from in between her fingers. “Was that– the first time?”

 

“It was,” he disclosed, trying to keep a straight face as he remembered the events of the night. “We left early. You wanted to– show me something,  _ in your room _ .” He couldn’t help but let his grin slip by then. “You’d been to Greendale with Veronica, lingerie shopping.”

 

_ “Oh my god.” _

 

  
  
  


He returns to his side of the bed on the first winter night, Betty’s hand tight around his in the space between their bodies.

 

.

.

.

.

 

Betty grows frustrated after each doctor’s appointment; her prognosis growing more and more uncertain as the months go by.

 

“ _ Patience _ ,” he’d taken to whispering near her forehead before dropping a kiss there every night before bed. She’d kiss his cheek or caress his face before drifting off to sleep.

 

Tonight, she stills. Or at least he thinks she does, until the bed starts shaking and he realizes she’s sobbing quietly.

 

“Oh, Betts, baby,” he says, pulling her in closer. “Shh, it’s okay.”

 

“I– I just, I’m so  _ tired _ of this,” she hiccups out, fingers tight around his t-shirt.

 

“I’m sorry, I’m  _ so _ sorry.”

 

They hold each other long enough for Betty’s sobs to subside into occasional muffled sniffles, Jughead’s fingers steadily running through her hair.

 

“I wish I could remember  _ why _ I feel the things I feel,” she mumbles against his damp sleep shirt after a while. “I feel like an impostor, living this perfect life with you when I can’t remember how we got here. And then I feel so ungrateful for even thinking of that when I could be buri—”

 

“Shh, Betts,” he interrupts, hating the way his mind morbidly flashes a tombstone with her name engraved on it.  _ Elizabeth Cooper-Jones, beloved daughter and wife. _

 

He shuts his eyes briefly, in order to get rid of the image, before he speaks again. “Your feelings are valid, alright? You’re allowed to feel however you want.”

 

“I’m just scared,” she confesses quietly. “I feel so tiny and weak sometimes, like I can’t control anything.”

 

“I know you, Elizabeth Cooper, and you’re going to get through this,” he leans backwards a bit so that he can bop her nose softly, earning him a light giggle. “You’re the strongest person I know. Also—”

 

“What?” she asks when his voice gives out, wide, curious eyes roaming his face. “Juggie,  _ what _ ?”

 

“You have me,” he says, a hint of bashfulness to his tone. “Forever. I promised you that on our wedding day, and I promise you that tonight, too. As a friend, as– as anything more than that, I’m yours.”

 

“Thank you,” she says, voice nearly a whisper as she leans forward to press her lips to his cheek. “You’re all I need.”

 

.

.

.

.

 

Christmas Eve finds them huddled up with a blanket and hot chocolate on their couch, Christmas carols playing softly in the background as Betty recounts her tree searching adventure with Veronica earlier that day.

 

“You would’ve died at the way these men looked at us when Ronnie said we were cutting it ourselves, Juggie, it was so infuriating,” she tells him, eyes dancing with the excitement of the day before she rolls them. “It reminded me of that time the football team didn’t think we’d be able to pull off that stunt at the pep rally, right before the game against Greendale, remember?”

 

_ Remember? _

 

He smiles broadly at her, because of course he remembers, but the fact that she does too edges on miraculous. “How could I forget Chuck’s bloody nose when Ronnie’s knee  _ accidentally _ landed on it?”

 

Betty giggles, reaching forward to grasp her mug with two hands to take a sip. She turns towards the already decorated tree in the corner with a grin. “Today was a great day,” she announces, leaning back against the cushions and taking his hand.  “How did grocery shopping with Archie go?

 

“Surprisingly well,” he says with a chuckle. “As predicted he wandered off a few times, but at least he was considerate enough to bring back some samples for me.”

 

“That sounds like Arch,” she laughs. They sit in silence for a few beats until the song changes and Betty turns to him. “Wanna dance with me?”

 

It’s not the first time Betty’s asked him, but it’s the first time he doesn’t immediately think of an excuse not to. Instead, he stands up, dusts off his pants and offers her a hand.

 

She smiles, delighted, before he moves them to the small space between their living room and kitchen.

 

Her arms go around his neck and his settle lightly on her hips, but when they start to sway, Betty steps closer to him, and his hold tightens.

 

“This is nice,” he comments softly, chin on top of her head.

 

She hums in response, but he can feel her smile against the side of his neck. He twirls her around a few times, marveling in the way her sparkling eyes linger on him, the way her cheeks flush when he catches her.

 

 

Pure, joyful hope rises in his chest.

 

 

“I see the way you look at me, Betts, when you think I’m not looking,” he teases. “You’re not being subtle.”

 

Her feet stop moving.

 

“Uh, sorry,” he says awkwardly. “I was just– I didn’t mean to assume anything.”

 

His heart, the one that belongs to her and her only, is beating too hard in his chest.

 

“Juggie?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“You’re not assuming,” she says slowly, lifting her head up from his shoulder.

 

Her fingers trace the gold band on his finger purposefully.

 

Somehow, he knows,  _ he hopes he knows _ , what her next move is.

 

She disentangles her arms from around his neck, shy smile full on display as she walks backwards into their room. He can’t see her, but he pictures her jerking her bedside table drawer open, taking out the small transparent bag she’d been given by the nurses after her first surgery containing her earrings, her silver bracelet, and—

 

Her wedding ring.

 

She holds it out to him as soon as she walks back. He takes it gingerly, in between two fingers, the pad of one tracing the intricate lines that make up his own name and the date of their wedding.

 

She lifts her left hand in the space between their bodies, and Jughead swears he sees the way her skin erupts into goosebumps when his increasingly rapid breath fans it.

 

“You’re not assuming, Jughead, because I may not remember much of what we’ve been through, but I know I married the right person.”

 

She places the tip of her finger into the ring, and with trembling fingers, Jughead pushes it until it’s resting below her knuckle.

 

 

Their heartbeats, for the first time in months, are fully given permission to be on the same wavelength again.

 

“You’re not assuming, Juggie, because I don’t need my memory back to know that I love you, and that I never want to be without you.”

 

Her hand falls from his so she can cup his face, fingers gently brushing his tears away.

 

“I love you, Betty, baby you have no idea—” he starts with a laugh, and he’s so elated that he can’t resist not leaning down to capture her lips in a kiss. “ _ Thank you. Thank you. Thank you,” _ he mumbles into her mouth.

 

Their lips hover close once they pull back, noses bumping together as they beam at each other.

 

“Thank  _ you _ , Juggie, for being so patient with me.”

 

She leans forward then, pressing her lips anywhere she can reach: his cheeks, the side of his nose, his chin, standing on her tiptoes to reach his forehead before she makes it back to his lips. There she lingers, and he’s reminded that this is a second first to her, that the feeling of his lips on hers isn’t engraved in her memory like the feeling of hers is on his, branded for eternity on his skin, heart and soul.

 

He vaguely registers that the music’s still playing as they move backwards to the couch, his lips moving deliciously against Betty’s, but he catches some of the words when she pulls back, breathless, and reaches for the edge of her shirt. 

 

His breath catches in his throat.

 

_ Although it's been said many times, many ways _ _ ,  _ _ Merry Christmas to you. _

 

 

  
  
  


“Now what?” she asks later, propped up on her elbow with their white duvet delicately covering her chest, cheeks rosy and lips plump as she gazes up at him.

 

“Now,” he starts, reaching for her naked hip and pulling her closer to him.  “Now we make new memories.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did i manage to make this christmass-y in october? you bet.
> 
> thank you to all who have commented on and kudo’ed this fic, your support has been amazing and i’m super grateful.
> 
> i hope the ending rang true to you all: i couldn’t bring myself to give Betty her full memory back because it always ended in this really neat perfect ending that i felt didn’t resonate with the point i was trying to make in this fic, the "soulmates who meet and fall in love no matter the circumstances" trope, if that makes sense.
> 
> once again, thank you! keep an eye open for (those who read my other WIPs please don’t roll your eyes too hard at my lack of consistency) a new project titled full circle, which will be basically a collection of Bughead’s firsts and lasts together. 
> 
> Come find me over at @indiebughead on Tumblr.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi you guys!
> 
> I know what you’re all thinking -- "Maria, dear, don’t you have a couple of WIPs you should finish before you start a new project?"
> 
> Why yes, that is correct. But you know, stuff happened and I ended up with this and I could not help myself.
> 
> I’m sorry if this was angsty, I’ll try to make it better, promise!
> 
> Please let me know what you think, I’d love to hear your thoughts.
> 
> Find me at indiebughead over at Tumblr!


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